CHAPTER 125: SHADOWS OF THE PAST

Alexia’s POV

I gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, my knuckles whitening as I stared into the mirror. The reflection that met me was a ghost of the woman I had become, haunted by the specter of the girl I once was. Memories, long buried and festering, clawed their way to the surface, each more painful than the last.

It began with my father.

*********

In the dim glow of the jet’s bathroom, Alexia sat on the cold marble floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The hum of the aircraft was a distant murmur, drowned out by the cacophony of memories crashing over her.

A Week Before the Inauguration

The grand hall of the palace was adorned with tapestries depicting the kingdom’s glorious past. Yet, the opulence did little to soothe Alexia’s turbulent mind. She paced the length of the room, her silk gown whispering against the polished floors. The weight of the impending announcement pressed heavily on her chest.

Her father, King Aldric, stood by the towering windows, gazing out over the sprawling gardens. His regal presence was both commanding and distant. Alexia approached, her voice trembling.

"Father, I beg you to reconsider," she implored, her eyes searching his for any sign of compassion. "Marrying King Leopold of Macadeno... he’s thrice my age. I cannot fathom a life with him."

King Aldric turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "Alexia, this alliance is paramount for the stability of our realm. Macadeno’s strength will fortify our borders and ensure our prosperity."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "But at what cost to me? Am I nothing more than a pawn in this game of power?"

His gaze hardened. "You are a princess. Your personal desires are secondary to the needs of the kingdom. The decision is final."

The moment her father had left her chambers that day, Alexia screamed.

She hurled the golden perfume bottle across the room, shattering it into glittering fragments against the marble wall. The sweet scent of lavender filled the air like mockery, wrapping around her like a noose.

Married.To the old, bloated King of Macadeno. A man whose teeth were yellow, whose hands groped and wandered, whose breath stank of rotting meat and sour wine. A man who already had four wives and wanted a fifth—a young, beautiful princess to parade like a trophy.

And her father, the mighty King, didn’t care.

Not about her tears. Not about her pleading.

"You are a princess. You do not need love," he had said.

As if love was a luxury she didn’t deserve.

And so, the rest of the week she became someone else.

Someone crueler. Sharper. Deadlier.

She walked through the palace like a storm cloaked in silk—tearing through the staff with sharp words and irrational punishments. No warm smiles. No forgiveness. Even the smallest mistake became a punishable offense.

A dropped spoon? Three days in the dungeon.

Laughter heard behind her back? A slap and a warning.

A dress laced one inch too tight? Public humiliation.

They all feared her now.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Days That Followed

The palace, once a place of refuge, became a gilded cage. Every corridor echoed with whispers of the upcoming union. Servants avoided her gaze, sensing the storm that brewed within their princess.

During a fitting session for her inauguration gown, a young maid accidentally pricked Alexia with a needle.

"Imbecile!" Alexia snapped, yanking her hand away. The tiny bead of blood on her fingertip seemed to symbolize the countless wounds she bore inside. "Can you do nothing right?"

The maid trembled, her eyes wide with fear. "Forgive me, Your Highness. It was an accident."

"Get out of my sight," Alexia hissed, her voice cold as ice.

Her frustration didn’t end there. In the grand kitchen, the head chef presented a selection of dishes for the inaugural banquet.

Alexia took a bite of a delicate pastry and immediately spat it out. "This is atrocious! Are you trying to poison me before my own inauguration?"

The chef bowed deeply, sweat forming on his brow. "I apologize, Princess. I will have it remade immediately."

It was late. The palace kitchens had prepared a feast to appease her fury—a table spread with roasted duck, honeyed bread, sugared fruit, and rich wines.

But nothing could satisfy her.

She sat at the head of the long table, staring at the food with disgust.

"Take it all away," she hissed. "It’s all filth."

The servants hesitated.

"I said take it away!" she shouted, flipping the table herself.

Plates crashed. Roasted duck slid across the floor. Wine pooled like blood over the stone.

She stormed out, leaving the mess behind.

The Slave Without a Name

Among the many servants and slaves, there was one who caught her attention more than others. A young man, his eyes always downcast, his presence almost ghostly. He moved with a quiet grace, performing his duties without complaint.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Alexia observed him from her balcony. He was in the courtyard, tending to the horses. There was a gentleness in his touch, a stark contrast to the turmoil within her.

She descended the grand staircase, her steps purposeful. Approaching him, she spoke curtly, "You there. What’s your name?"

He paused, his hands stilling on the horse’s mane. "I have no name, Your Highness. I am but a slave."

A flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—passed through her. But she quickly buried it beneath layers of anger and resentment.

"Very well," she said, her tone sharp. "Fetch me some water. And be quick about it."

He bowed and hurried to fulfill her command.

The Breaking Point

The culmination of her anguish came when she observed the nameless slave conversing with a young female servant. They stood close, their voices hushed, their expressions tender.

Jealousy, hot and blinding, surged through Alexia. Her mind raced with suspicions. Was this girl seducing him? Using him to steal from the royal chambers?

Summoning the guards, she pointed a trembling finger at the girl. "Seize her. She’s conspiring against the crown."

The girl’s eyes widened in shock. "Your Highness, I would never—"

"Silence!" Alexia’s voice echoed through the courtyard. "You will be executed at dawn."

The nameless slave fell to his knees, his voice breaking. "Please, Princess. She’s my sister. We mean no harm."

But Alexia’s heart was a fortress, impenetrable and cold. She turned away, ignoring the pleas that haunted her long after the deed was done.

Later That Night

A guard came to her with trembling hands and a bowed head.

"Your Highness... your slave the male one... he was seen collecting the discarded food and... and feeding it to the slaves detained in the dungeon."

Alexia went still.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"What?"

"He waited until you left. He gathered what he could and... distributed it to the ones who’d been locked away this week."

The red haze returned. She stood slowly, her nails digging into her palms.

"Who gave him permission?"

"No one, Your Highness. He acted alone."

Alone. As if he had a mind of his own. As if her authority meant nothing to him.

She clenched her jaw, fury shaking her to her core.

"He dared... after everything I’ve done for him," she seethed. "After I allowed him to serve in my quarters. Is he rebelling because of the girl—" She stopped.

The girl.

The one she had executed.

She thought she was his lover. They had been whispering in corners. Laughing. Looking at each other like they shared something she wasn’t allowed to have.

She had warned him not to get attached.

Hadn’t he learned anything?

"Throw him in the dungeon," she ordered coldly. "Strip him. Bind him. Five lashes every morning. Use the thorned whip. The one that tears skin."

The guard blinked. "He... he won’t last long without food or water, Your Highness."

"Then feed him porridge. Just enough to keep him alive."

"But—"

"Do it!"

The Dungeon

She went to see him once.

Just once.

To prove a point.

He was on the ground, chained to the wall, back slashed open from the morning’s whipping. His body trembled with fever. His skin was gray from lack of sun, his eyes dull.

Still, he looked at her.

Not with fear.

With hate.

She didn’t speak. She just stared at him—this slave who dared defy her. Who dared love someone else. Who dared feed the weak when she wanted them to suffer. Who dared have hope when she was losing her world.

And the look in his eyes—cold, empty, vengeful—it haunted her more than anything.

She turned and left, her chest tight, her thoughts screaming.

***********

Now, in the confines of this bathroom, miles above the ground, the past has caught up with me. The man beyond this door remembers. The pain I’ve inflicted is no longer buried beneath the sands of time.

I sink to the floor, the cold tiles pressing against my skin, and let the tears flow freely. No amount of repentance can undo the horrors I’ve wrought.

Tears streamed down my face, my body wracked with sobs. The memories I had tried so hard to suppress now consumed her.

"I was a monster," I whispered to the emptiness. "And now, the past has come to claim its due."

The hum of the jet’s engines was a distant lullaby, a stark contrast to the tempest within her soul.

But perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a sliver of hope. A chance to seek forgiveness, to mend the irreparable.

The question remains: Does he have the capacity to forgive the monster I once was?